A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, humming an ancient tune under the silver moonlight. Its waters carry forgotten stories of wandering poets and distant mountains. On its bank, an old willow tree leans low, its leaves tracing verses on the water’s surface.

A child once sat there, listening to the murmurs of the current, dreaming of realms where time flows backward and memories bloom like lotus flowers. The brook whispered secrets of the earth—how rain becomes river, how silence becomes song.

Now the child is grown, but the brook still sings. Some say if you listen closely at dawn, you’ll hear poetry woven from dewdrops and starlight, timeless and brief as a single breath.